Meeting Fate
by girl in the glen
Summary: The new Soviet agent meets some resistance, and his future. Originally posted for Song Story on Section Vii, LJ.


The locker room that serviced the UNCLE gym was generally full of personnel coming and going either into some training session or exiting after a shower and fresh change of clothes. For most it was a congenial spot, with the camaraderie among agents and non-agents generally in gear and in keeping with the altruistic goals of the multi-national organization.

On this day, the mood was slightly less friendly. A particularly opinionated group was gathered there and the opinion that concerned them now was the one they held about the new agent from the Soviet Union. To say they were not welcoming the man with open arms was somewhat of an understatement, and one to which they would heartily agree.

Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin had arrived only a few days prior, but his presence had stirred up several camps devoted to impressions of the situation being created by welcoming a Soviet to the Command. The cool young man seemed to not care what people thought and, although pleasant to all, had not gone out of his way to be overly friendly. While some of the women immediately considered him fair game for hot pursuit, others decided to wait and see what might transpire as a result of hosting a Communist. Another group wasn't willing to wait.

Today Illya was in the gym with one of the several trainers whose job it was to keep the Section II men in shape. Kuryakin and his trainer, Mike Levitz, were going through some moves intended to sharpen an agent's skills in hand-to-hand combat. The lithe young blond had made a favorable impression on Levitz, and the two struck up a friendly banter to accompany the workout. The UNCLE veteran had been with the organization long enough to trust Waverly's instincts about everything concerning this organization, and working with Kuryakin cemented that viewpoint; there was no doubt that this man would be an asset.

At the end of an hour Levitz dismissed Kuryakin and sent him to the showers, satisfied that the new agent was not only sufficiently trained for the job, but deceptively well equipped; the Russian's small stature had been a worry that was soon dismissed as he demonstrated the advantages inherent in an opponent underestimating him.

Illya stripped down and grabbed a towel, heading to the much anticipated shower. A luxury in his homeland, this ritual of bathing in such a well appointed facility was a revelation to the Soviet agent, and something he intended to enjoy.

And so it was with a great deal of dismay that he encountered the group previously mentioned. After showering and returning to his locker with only his towel as a defense, Illya found four men standing purposefully beside the spot he intended to use.

"So, Ruskie, it looks like you're enjoying our capitalistic indulgences. I thought that was against your religion."

The other three men laughed nervously, still uncertain about confronting a man hand picked by Alexander Waverly. The spokesman was undaunted, however. The little blond looked like a push over to him.

Illya thought he recognized the man speaking, had seen him staring on occasion and made a mental note to avoid him.

"You seem to have something you wish to tell me, and I need to get dressed. I also see that you needed to bring additional help with you in order to speak to me."

It was a taunt, of course. It was a trademark of the Russian that would follow him mercilessly throughout his career.

"What are you saying, Red? You think I needed them for courage? Maybe you just need to be taught a lesson to help you denounce your Communist masters and find out what it really takes to live in America."

Illya's expression didn't change, his glare remained intense and, to the other three men, slightly deranged. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.

"I assure you that there will be no denouncement. I am a representative of the Soviet government, invited and recruited by Mr. Waverly himself. If you have an issue with me, then you should take it up with him.'

Illya let his eyes travel over the group before continuing.

"And now, if you will excuse me, I need to get dressed."

The leader of the group, whose name was Alex Cortland, decided it was time to dole out that lesson. He looked around the locker room and then, with what he thought was lightening quickness, took a shot at the Russian.

Illya was faster, and the blow to Cortland's midsection doubled him over. The other three, in a knee jerk reaction, jumped into the fray and launched themselves at Kuryakin. One of them went down immediately, but two of them managed to grab his arms from behind. Cortland was recovering by this time and drew back his right arm in anticipation of delivering a decisive blow.

Something caught his fist in mid-air.

"Gee, did someone send out invitations for this party? I don't think I received one."

Cortland knew that voice, as did his accomplices. Kuryakin, whose towel had dropped to the floor during the altercation, recognized the man behind the voice: Napoleon Solo.

"You know, I'm sure you fellas thought a welcoming party was a good idea, but really … '

Solo looked each one in the eye, then dropped his gaze to the towel lying in a heap. Illya retrieved it and secured it around his waist once more.

"… I'm equally certain that it just cost all of your jobs."

Mike Levitz walked in at that moment, his eyes wide as he tried to take in what had been transpiring in his locker room. When he saw the still rigid demeanor of the blond among the other fully dressed men, something rang a bell.

"So, Mr. Solo, how about I help these guys find the exit?"

"Thanks Mike, that sounds just perfect to me. And…'

With a nod of his head and a smirk on his face…

"Don't bother trying to pick up a severance check, or a referral. Goodbye, gentlemen. And I use that term loosely, I assure you."

Mike prodded the four troublemakers as he herded them towards the door. Napoleon watched them as Illya watched Solo.

"Thank you, but I am quite certain that I could have handled it myself."

Napoleon turned around to look at the new guy. Lean was a generous description of the smaller man. He was skinny, and pale and … his ribs showed in a way that spoke of not enough to eat for longer than seemed healthy.

"I have no doubt. By the way, I'm Napoleon Solo, Section II."

The skinny blond was slightly wary, he'd heard of this man during Survival School; he had gone out of his way to try and beat every record the man had set, and succeeded in a few.

"Illya Kuryakin, but I suppose you already knew that."

Solo smiled, an expression that the Russian would grow to interpret for its many meanings.

"Yes, I had heard you were on the premises. It seems some others might have objected, and for that I apologize. That isn't what UNCLE represents, and it won't be tolerated."

Illya nodded, he understood it would be an uphill battle among some of the people here, his being a Soviet. But he was Russian, and he wasn't going to apologize, even if he believed there were times when it was warranted.

"Thank you, I had hoped … London also had its challenges."

Napoleon believed that, and he wondered what it must be like to come from a place that was feared and hated by so many, and still be expected to perform as an equal among them. He wondered what the man's future would be like here in New York.

"Okay then, I guess you'll be off to your next … What is it you're doing here, by the way? I don't think I've seen any assignments for you yet."

Kuryakin was getting dressed as they spoke, an unconventional manner of dress to Solo's way of thinking. As a black turtleneck was slipped on atop black corduroy jeans, the uncombed blond hair seemed an appropriate topper to the slender man. He looked different, no wonder people felt a little uncomfortable. If this decade got any wilder the world would be in chaos.

"Mr. Waverly lets you forego the white shirt and necktie?"

The blond head cocked to one side, a questioning expression evident in the eyebrows that peaked in the furrow of his brow.

"You do not approve? It is European, as I am. I am not an American, Mr. Solo. I will not apologize for it, nor will I conform simply for the sake of conformity. Is that going to be a problem?"

Now Napoleon smiled a broad and welcoming smile that held no secrets.

"Not at all, Mr. Kuryakin. I hope you don't back down on who you are, tovarisch. I salute you."

And with that, he did. Napoleon raised his hand in a casual salute and left the Russian to contemplate life in America.

He decided to stay and see where it would lead him.


End file.
